When He Hits Me
by dancingdragon3
Summary: Sylar/Peter dark fic. Sequel to When I Hit Him. Sylar sits on top of a roof, watching Peter hit the wall and thinks about Peter hitting him. He likes it. Warnings include sexual content, language, and violence.


Title: When He Hits Me

Pairing: Sylar/Peter

Genre: dark smut

Rating/Warnings: R for sexual content and physical abuse.

Word count: 1370 words

Setting: The Wall

Summary: Sequel to When I Hit Him. Sylar sits on a roof watching Peter work on the wall. He thinks about Peter hitting him and takes matters in hand.

Beta by means2bhuman

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><p>I love the way he looks at me when he hits me. Like he's coming in his pants over me. Like he can't get enough of it. Like hitting me is fucking me and I'm the one who can't get enough.<p>

I honestly didn't know I was such a masochist until Kirby Plaza. There was something about his fists on my face...something about someone so pure and pretty standing over me, focused on me and splattered in my blood that worked; that flipped a switch in the dark, unused recesses of my libido. My dark red blood on the pristine white shirt stretched across his firm chest looked like a deadly wound and beacon all at once. He looks good in my blood. He would look better drenched in it.

And his fists? The hitting? The way it feels like I've been knocked into another century is...something I have never known. It feels like losing and winning at the same time. It makes me feel solid and real and alive like nothing ever has. It's almost as good as taking down prey. It makes me want to be his prey, his victim. I look up at him and all I see is Master. Conqueror. But only when he's fighting me do I see that in him.

Maybe that's it. I'm bringing him down to my level and he looks so good down here with me, so at home. Maybe he is his father's son, after all. How ironic that I bring out the Petrelli in him. I wonder how long and hard he'd hit me if I told him that.

But really, who else would have the balls to nail me to a goddamn table and practically straddle me at the same time? Did he think I didn't realize the sexual implications? What am I, a moron? I may be inexperienced but I am not naive. He wants me. It might as well be written across his forehead. And I've made it clear that I'm into it. I'd have to rip my clothes off and start humping his leg to make it any more obvious. And I am not about to do that. Not yet.

But, I do not know how much more of this teasing I can take and I refuse to be the first one who breaks. I'll just have to make do with the more brutal aspects of our relationship. Lord knows they scratch an itch I didn't even know I had. I hope it doesn't mean what I think it must, that I miss...No, I'm not going there. Not today, anyway.

Not when I have a sexy, sweaty Peter Petrelli in my sights and my hard, naked dick in my hand.

He's down on the street below my vantage point going to town on the wall, unconcerned with where I've gotten off to. If only he knew what I was up to here on the roof with my own blunt instrument. I wonder what he would do if he caught me. But that's a fantasy for another day. Today, I am just watching him. The energy of him stuck in that small package. He must be on the verge of exploding all the time.

I squeeze my erection at this thought.

Peter exploding is an old fantasy of mine. But today is today and now is now, and I am a creature of the now. I re-focus on the scene below me; pausing to get a little more lotion from the small bottle I've brought with me for this afternoon's secret rendezvous. God, how I love watching him swing that hammer. I'm timing my strokes with the ringing sound of it until my head is swimming with the clang and the vibration is in my skin. Finally, I close my eyes and see him swinging his fists instead. Each hit, a counterpoint to what my own fist is doing and all being heralded by the sound of metal against brick. Which is fitting. His fists are like brick walls and my dick is as hard as steel.

I start double-timing when the fantasy changes from fighting to fucking.

I've never been with a man but I've thought about it more in the past year than I ever thought about women. Ever since he held me against that wall on the cellblock, that's when it hit me - what I wanted, brother or not.

I love the way he killed me - no weapons, just his bare hands.

I can't help pinching the swollen head of my dick at these thoughts, so wrong and nasty and hot all at the same time.

What I want from him is far from clean, so what the fuck? Murder and incest. What could be dirtier? And I want to be dirty. I want to feel him ripping into me, angry and helpless with lust, biting, swearing, and scratching. I pinch a nipple hard and then rake my nails down my chest, biting my lip, trying to make the fantasy real. Pictures of him fucking me and hitting me are over-lapping in my mind's eye, all swirling to focus on his beautiful, hate-filled face. His dark eyes glowing like burning coals. For me. The liquid heat rises in me flowing into my groin like a spiraling waterfall of glorious sensation.

My strokes grow harder. Faster. Rougher.

My other hand is busy with my nipples, my neck, my balls - everywhere I want Peter to touch me - in anger as much as in passion. I think there's supposed to be a difference between the two, but here...no way. I want his anger, his hatred, his violence. They sustain me in this lonely prison like nothing else could.

I love the way he looks at me when he hits me. I am the center of his world then. The only thing he sees. His hate for me consumes him. I am the only thing he wants. He wants to own me, kill me, and bathe in my blood.

That image sets me alight in the consummating blaze and I'm using two hands to finish, one on my dick and the other on my balls, hard and relentless. I am wringing out the ecstasy with pain-filled gasps that I barely bother smothering. It's so good; I feel overwhelming electric shocks coursing though my limbs and I am a wrung out mess at the end of it all.

I shove my come-stained fingers in my mouth, choking and gagging on them, imagining they are his fingers, his cock, his come I'm being forced to lick up and swallow in greedy gulps. I imagine his still-hard cock being shoved down my throat for a thorough cleaning, my other hand still gripping my overly sensitive flesh, as much in punishment as reward.

What I wouldn't give for another pair of hands pulling my hair, making my head stay in place for his eager thrusts. I want him all over me, soaking into me, not leaving one inch of skin unmarked by his hands or cock. I want to be left awash in sensation and bone weariness, sore and soiled from head to toe, like I've been run over by a mack truck. Only then will I be satisfied.

And I know I will get my desire soon. He can't hold out much longer. I see it in his eyes, feel it in his hands and the way his body presses against mine. There's a fire in his eyes waiting to consume me and I long for it's blaze. It is heaven and hell wrapped up in hate and lust and I am willingly drowning in it. Because it's all I have anymore and it sure makes life interesting.

I love the way he looks at me when he hits me and I can't wait to see if it's the same as when he fucks me.


End file.
